


A Christmas Miracle

by Kaliko_Jerika



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Abused Stiles Stilinski, Feral Behavior, Feral Stiles Stilinski, Fox Stiles Stilinski, Full Shift Werewolves, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, No Kate Argent, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Post-Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25650868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaliko_Jerika/pseuds/Kaliko_Jerika
Summary: Stiles has been missing since the Nogitsune was defeated. Peter Hale has been wandering North America since the Kanima was defeated. He never expects to be the one to find Stiles, or for Stiles to be a feral werefox. Peter returns Stiles to the pack so they can fix him, but complications arise trying to help Stiles and Peter has to step in.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 79





	1. A Fortunate Coincidence

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't really written anything in a while, but I want to get this out of my system before school starts. It hasn't been beta-read, but if you want to volunteer, I can't stop you. I do have ideas for a sequel for this. If you want to see that, let me know. I don't have a strict plot for this story, so if there's anything you want to see, let me know about that as well. I hope you like this story, let me know if you do.
> 
> Chapter one of this fic was inspired by Polish by Rospeaks.

Peter picked up his cards and held back a smile, silently pushing a small pile of chips into the middle. The bright lights of the casino hurt his eyes, but this was worth it, and he wouldn’t be staying here long. The small town at the borders of Utah and Idaho was the perfect rest stop. The other people, hunters, he was playing with had added their chips now, Peter drew his first card and almost let his Poker Face drop. This was going to be a good night.

Final Call had been almost an hour ago, Peter sipped from his drink as he looked apon the latest group of hunters he was playing. He had won the last five rounds and was still going strong. Glancing at his cards, he pushed a couple chips from his many stacks into the middle. The hunters copied him. Without werewolf metabolism, the hunters were all at least half-drunk. Peter pushed a larger amount of chips into the middle. He noted how the hunter across from him had only a few chips left. Smirking, Peter picked up his card. When it was his turn to bet again, he pushed another, larger amount of chips into the middle and waited. When it came to the hunter across from him, his brow furrowed in concern, before dropping a key on top of the chips, brown eyes glinting maliciously.

“What’s this for?” Peter asked.

“We caught it in California a few months ago. If you win you can have it,” the hunter replied.

The others looked between them nervously. Peter nodded and the game continued. At the end, Peter traded up his chips, putting the key in his pocket. He left the table to exchange his chips for cash, returning to the table with his wallet a few hundred dollars heavier and dangled the key in front of the hunter who had given it to him. “So, where is my prize?”

Said hunter stood up and gestured Peter to follow him. They left the casino through a back door and emerged in an alley. In front of them was a wall of cages, shrouded in darkness. The hunter held his hand out for the key, waiting for Peter to hand it to him, before walking over to a cage in the deepest part of the alley. A small group of cages smaller than the rest. The hunter pulled a cattle prod off the wall, stooping down to shock the creature that lunged at him. Taking a needle from a box next to the cages, the hunter used the key to unlock the cage and quickly jabbed it into the shoulder of the still convulsing animal.

With the hunter focused on the cage and the animal within, Peter examined the alley. There were no lights near the alley, and just enough natural light for the hunters to see what they were doing. Most of the cages were empty, with a few on the bottom rows near the entrance housing large dogs. Sniffing the air, Peter could tell they were true dogs, not werewolves and from their calmness in the cages, belonged to the hunters. They were used to this. Whatever was in the cage before him was not. The thing reeked of fear and anxiety and piss and blood and something familiar he couldn’t place.

The Hunter moved back then, letting Peter see the creature in the cage properly for the first time. A werefox, thin with matted fur covered in grime and blood lay limp in the cage. Peter didn’t need to be a werewolf to know whatever the hunters had done to him had been bad. “What did you give him?” Peter asked.

“Kanima venom. It’s standard for transport. We can do complete sedation for extra,” The hunter replied.

“How long will the Kanima venom last?”

“A few hours. The sedation lasts a lot longer, good for longer distances.”

Wordlessly, Peter handed over a $100 bill. The hunter took it and shoved the note in his pocket, bending over to get another syringe from a different box. The werefox lay completely still as the hunter stabbed the second needle into his shoulder. A minute later, his eyes closed and the rabbit-fast heartbeat Peter had been hearing slowed down to a much slower rate.

“Put him in my trunk.” Peter told the hunter, handing over his car keys. Without waiting to watch the hunter do as he asked, Peter turned around, walking back inside the casino and over to the table he had been playing at.

“Back for more?” the hunter that had sat on his left asked.

“No. Just looking for more info on what I’ve already won.” Peter replied.

“It’s completely wild. Too small for the fights, too violent for a fuck, or a house pet. The only reason it hasn’t been put down if ‘cause we don’t want its pack after us if we do,” a different hunter replied.

“It’s your problem now,” the first hunter said.

Peter left the table as the hunter returned to the room. Peter held his hand out for his keys, walking silently out of the room through the back door. He didn’t spare a glance to the alley as he walked to his car. A dark grey Honda Accord. Peter opened the trunk to look at the fox under better lighting.

His coat was dark, long, and full of matts. Peter could see patches of lighter color in the less dirty areas and wondered what the foxes coat would look like when it was clean. The muzzle was shorter that a regular fox and slightly wider. His legs were a little longer than normal, the tail long and thick, covered in a thick coat of fur. It was hard to tell how big or how old the fox was under all the dirt. The familiar scent reached Peter’s nose again and he sniffed, taking in all the scents of the fox. Dirt, and blood and fear were the obvious ones. Cinnamon and forest and rain hid underneath. Coupled with the quick-paced heart, Peter realized this was not just a random werefox, but Stiles. His pack.

Peter gently paced his hand against Stiles’ shoulder and vowed, “I will get you home. We will help you.”

Closing the trunk, Peter walked around to the driver’s seat and got in, closing the door and putting his seatbelt on, preparing for a long drive back to California. Pulling out of the parking lot, Peter began the long drive home. He wouldn’t be able to stop to rest or sleep until he got there. If Stiles woke up, things would not be good. On the highway, Peter increased his speed. If the cops spotted him, he would just have to out run them. Time was of the essence.

Having just passed the California border, Peter realized how late it was. It was unlikely the pack would be together, or even awake. He pulled out his phone and called Derek, connecting his phone to the cars Bluetooth and waiting for his nephew to answer. On the final ring, Derek picked up.

“What?” He yawned through the phone.

“Get the pack together,” Peter said, his voice urgent and demanding.

“It’s 4am, Peter.”

“I have Stiles,” Peter stated.

Derek’s tone changed, “I’ll get the pack to the loft. Where are you?”

“Two hours away at most.” Peter glanced back using the mirror, listening for any sign Stiles was waking up. All he saw was open road. There was no way to tell how much time he had. “Stiles isn’t himself.”

“What do you mean, ‘he isn’t himself’, Peter?” Concern flooded Derek’s voice. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. He’s not human.” Peter waited for Derek’s reaction. After getting only silence, he elaborated. “He’s completed a full shift. I can’t tell if he’s feral or not. Be prepared.” Peter ended the call. He would be driving in silence until he reached Beacon Hills.

By the time the roads became familiar, the sun was halfway above the horizon, showering the road in rays of golden light. When the forest blocked out most of that light, Peter sighed. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if he was forced to drive half blind. He focused less on the road and more on the small sounds coming from the trunk. The sedative was wearing off. This time when he called Derek, he picked up on the first ring.

“The pack’s here, is everything okay?” Derek asked as soon as the call connected.

“Everything’s fine. Do you have a mountain ash barrier?” Peter fired back.

“No.”

“You have ten minutes to get one ready.” Peter hung up. He focused on getting to the loft as quickly as possible.

He got there in ten minutes as he said he would. Stiles’ heartbeat had sped up slightly. Pulling up into the bay right outside the doors, Peter jumped out the car and opened the trunk. Half-open eyes greeted him. Stiles was still too far under to do anything, but awake enough to growl softly when he saw Peter.

Picking Stiles up, Peter used his elbow to close the trunk and ran up the stairs. The doors to the loft were open when he reached them. The pack were crowded at the edge of the room, a large ring of mountain ash taking up most of the floor space. Peter laid Stiles down a few meters inside, stepping out so the Sheriff could close the hole, trapping Stiles inside. Peter took note of the room as the pack questioned him.

The furniture had been pushed hastily against the wall, the couch against the window and the tables on the right wall. The other chairs had been pushed out as well, facing the ring of mountain ash. The circle of ash had reached almost to the steps, and surrounded the four support pillars, leaving only a thin walkway in some places for the pack to move. Only when they had all finished talking did he speak.

“I won him in a poker game. Obviously he was more trouble than he was worth. When you fix him, tell him to come find me.” Peter turned around and stalked out of the loft, walking calmly down the stairs. He got into his still running car and drove off. The early morning sunlight bathing the streets in a warm golden hue.


	2. Last Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pack call in an expert on feral weres to help Stiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if its bad, I wrote this after an all nighter. I'm thinking of doing Stiles POV in the next chapter. Thoughts?

Scott stared at Stiles. The fox had taken to hiding in the den they made him whilst Deaton checked him over. With couch cushions as the three walls and the roof and a rough pile of blankets as the floor, it wasn’t very big, or comfortable, but it was only supposed to be for a few days. That was almost two weeks ago. Deaton hadn’t said anything about how to change him back. They’d tried everything Derek had suggested for a werewolf, hoping something would work. Stiles barely reacted to most of them, quickly growing used to the noise of the loft and ignoring the people around him.

They had tried giving him human food, but Stiles refused to eat it. He barely ate the raw meat they did give him. The Sheriff had bought meat from the store, in multiple types and cuts, all fresh or refrigerated. Derek had even caught a rabbit and a deer and presented them to the fox hoping he would eat the still-warm, carcasses. They had tried nuts and berries and other things regular foxes ate. Stiles didn’t seem to care what was put in front of him. He only ate just enough to stay alive. He did drink a little more water from the metal, non-tip bowl Lydia had shoved past the mountain ash line.

Holding out the leg of lamb, Scott called out Stiles’ name. He did start responding to it when he realized they were addressing him. Most often by running, hiding or growling at them. Scott threw the meat just in front of his den. When Stiles reached out and sniffed it, Scott turned and grabbed his school bag and phone. It was just early enough to catch up with the pack before first period and catch them up on what had happened since they left, despite there being hardly anything new. It had quickly become a routine.

Every morning Scott would offer food to Stiles, who would sniff and leave it. He would then go to school and talk to the pack about any new plans or progress. The entire pack would come to the loft after school and do homework or study together. They would say their notes aloud in hopes Stiles would understand. When the Sheriff got there, they would try to bring Stiles back and retrieve the meat they gave him that morning, normally with only a few bites from it. Most of the pack would stay for dinner, sometimes a movie, and go home for the night, with Scott staying in the guest bedroom. At weekends, most of the pack was there the whole time. Some of them, the ones who didn’t know about the supernatural, had to go home more often.

Today would be harder than the others. It was the final day of the semester, the last day of school for the year. Only two weeks until Christmas, and Stiles might miss it because he was still feral. They were running out of ideas to help. Stiles couldn’t live much longer like this, not before he lost his mind for good. And they still hadn’t found the Alpha who bit him, or figure out why he has purple eyes. Deaton had been no help, and Derek didn’t know too much about feral wolves. They needed a new idea. They needed Stiles back for Christmas.

When the pack got back to the loft that afternoon, Derek was pouring over an old book, staring intently at its pages. Lydia immediately went over to join him on the loveseat, pulling another book from the piles on the table. The rest of the pack, Scott, Isaac, Malia, Jackson and Kira dropped their bags by the door before sprawling out across the pillows and mattress on the floor. Some used the couch as a backrest as they couldn’t sit on it. No one dared sit on the Sheriff’s armchair. He would be there soon.

When everyone was seated, Derek spoke, “How was school?” without looking up from his book.

A chorus of ‘goods’ and ‘fines’ and ‘okays’ answered him. No one spoke again until the Sheriff arrived. He let himself in, discarding his coat and gun on the kitchen counter. When he was seated in the armchair he asked the same question he’s been asking every day since Peter brought Stiles back.

“How is he?”

“Exactly the same. He’s fine as long as you don’t get to close, or stare at him for too long.” Derek replied, finally looking up.

“Isn’t there anything else you can do?”

“No. We’ve looked through every book and every website and we’ve done everything Derek says could work, but he’s still feral, and he still hates us.” Scott huffed.

“What about other werewolves? Do they know anything?” Noah asked a new question.

“We, we haven’t asked any other werewolves.” Scott replied, meekly.

“What about Peter?” Derek marked his place in the book, putting it back on the pile.

“He left. Dropped Stiles here and left,” said Jackson.

“He can’t have left. He wanted to talk to Stiles when he was back to normal. So he must have stayed in town.” Kira pointed out.

Lydia seemed to lose interest in her book. Marking her place and closing it in her lap. This got the pack’s attention. Lydia had become obsessive in trying to help Stiles. “Peter has an apartment somewhere in Beacon Hills. I heard Stiles talking about it once.” She looked over to the den, the open end not visible from where she was sitting. “He’s probably staying there.” The rest of the pack looked confused, except for Derek, who had just raised an eyebrow slightly in a look that meant, ‘how do you know that?’

Scott was the one to break the newfound silence. “So we’ll call him. Ask him to come help.” At the nods of approval, Scott pulled out his phone. It rang five times before Peter picked up.

“Yes?”

“Stiles isn’t getting better,” Scott rushed.

“He’s still feral?” Peter asked.

“Yes.” Scott climbed out of the pile of bodies and sat at the bottom of the stairs. There werewolves could all still hear them fine, but it let them recite for the Sheriff without interrupting the call.

“I’ll be there tomorrow. Don’t do anything stupid.” Peter hung up.

Scott sighed. Hopefully Peter would be able to help Stiles, tell them what they were doing wrong. They all missed the Stiles who would try to prank them and tell dumb dog jokes and research for hours about the most mundane or inconsequential things. The sooner they got their Stiles back, the sooner they could help him heal and help him with control, and they could all be together for Christmas. They just needed Peter to come through.

**Author's Note:**

> If you think I've missed any tags, have the rating wrong, if you find a mistake or anything else concerning this fic, let me know, and if I agree, I'll change it.


End file.
